


The Monster and The Prince

by myhomeistheshire



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, alternate universe - fire, alternate universe - graceling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhomeistheshire/pseuds/myhomeistheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fire AU where Clarke is Fire and Bellamy is Brigan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Monster and The Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously this is very, VERY loosely based off Kristin Cashore's book. You can't imagine how much time I spent deciding which few integral parts I would keep. (And it annoys me TO NO END that I couldn't just throw in random word-for-word scenes, although I'll admit that towards the end it gets fairly close. That 'go safely' scene gets me every time.) Seriously, if you haven't read the book, READ IT NOW.

It all starts when Clarke gets shot.

 

She’s out for a walk in the woods (Wells can tell her not to all he wants, he’s wasting his breath), and even though her hair is wrapped tightly in her headscarf she’s still careful. Not careful enough, apparently, because one second she’s admiring the summer foliage and the next she’s bent over with an arrow in her arm and intense pain shattering up her entire body.

 

“I’m sorry - I thought you were a deer!” The man is getting closer, and Clarke clutches her headscarf tighter. “But what were you doing, girl, wandering around in the bush all dressed in brown? Only an idiot would -” Oh, _drat._ A piece of her hair slipped out of the scarf. The man’s expression was changing from concern and annoyance to horror, plain and simple. “I’m a dead man.” He whispers, turning to run, and Clarke could stop him but she doesn’t. Doesn’t want to have him punished, as Wells surely would if he brought her back bleeding, even if he _did_ shoot her. It was on accident, after all.

 

So she hobbles her way back to the small castle nestled into the valley. Wells is waiting for her, and he shoots down the few winged monsters who catch the scent of her blood.

“What were you thinking, Clarke?” He demands harshly once she reaches the gates. “Who shot you?”

“No one. A hunter who didn’t see what he thought he did.” Clarke puts more pressure on her arm, and winces. Her hands are covered in blood now, not that that’s particularly important.

Wells purses his lips, keeps back whatever violent thought he is surely thinking. “Call a healer,” he tells one of the guards, who nods and hurries off. He sighs. “How am I ever going to protect you when you refuse to let me?” He asks Clarke, and she shoots him a glare.

“You seem to refuse my constant arguments that I am not, in fact, in _need_ of your protection.”

“And yet I give it anyway,” he responds mockingly. “How kind I must be.”

  


She’s stuck in bed for the next few days, but despite that things pass much as they used to. Until, three days later, she receives a letter from Queen Aurora, stating that she’d heard of her injury and wished her to visit when she was well enough.

She saddles up her horse that very night, to Wells’ dismay. Their compromise is that she takes two of the guards with her, a compromise that she feels is completely unnecessary. She is quite equipped to handle herself around the wilderness, thank you very much. It’s people that are the problem.

 

When she arrives at the castle, the queen greets her warmly.

“Oh, my dear Clarke.” She whispers as she envelops her in an embrace. “How thin you look! Don’t tell me Jaha hasn’t been feeding you?”

“Lord Jaha has been feeding me more than I should be eating, your highness.” Clarke laughs. “But thank you for your concern.”

“And your injury?”

“I’ve adapted.” Clarke gestures to the one arm she has bound up in a sling.

“Wonderful, wonderful.” Aurora nods. “Now come, join us for something to eat.”

 

 

It isn’t until Clarke sits down at the table that she realizes the queen’s real motive behind inviting her to the palace.

Two men, both dark-haired and handsome, are sitting to the right of the queen. That’s where the similarities end, however. One has an open face, and is laughing at something with unnecessary gusto. The other is all hard edges and closed expressions. He catches her looking over at them, and meets her gaze with a cold one of his own. Clarke tries to nudge at his mind, for scientific reasons only, but is met with a solid wall. Her eyes widen slightly. Even Jaha, who has spent years with her building his mental defences, has considerably less strength.

She’s heard about them, of course. The eldest, Finn, who is careless with wine and even more careless with women, and who inherited the throne from his father years ago. And the younger, Bellamy, who took his father’s army and turned it into something so magnificent people sing ballads about it. They say that his soldiers would give their lives for him, every one of them, yet in his hate-filled gaze Clarke can’t tell what it is that inspires such loyalty. She doesn’t intend to stay long enough to find out.

 

 

She slips away from the dinner as soon as it is polite to do so, and takes a stroll around the grounds. The sun set long ago, so she doesn’t need to worry about the monsters seeing her hair. Even so, she keeps it wrapped in its scarf. The last thing she needs is to run into someone with her hair loose.

And it’s lucky she does, because she’s rounding the castle wall when heavy hands land on her shoulder and push her against the stone.

“My beautiful monster,” a voice whispers, and then there are lips crushed against hers, hands gripped on the side of her face. She immediately recognizes the aura as the king’s, and after the split second of shock she sends him a mental push. _You don’t want to kiss me_. The king pulls back, a confused look on his face. _You don’t even want to touch me_. The hands drop from her face. And this is all she really needs, but she’s tired and petulant and vindictive, so she adds a third command. _Apologize._

The king drops to his knees. “Forgive me, Clarke.” He murmurs. “Forgive me, my love.”

 

Clarke leaves him there, pleading futile apologies to the emptiness.

 

 

She hasn’t walked much further, though, when a second pair of hands grab her and throw her up against the wall. She’s prepared a mental defense, but as soon as she throws it out she knows it’s useless.

 

Prince Bellamy.

 

Her arms are above her head, crushed against the stone, and in the flickering torchlight she sees the hard planes of his face looming down at her.

“Leave my brother to his own devices.” He says harshly. “Finn may be susceptible to manipulation, but he is a good man, and if you show the slightest inclination towards exploiting that weakness, I _will_ kill you.”

 _How you convince people to follow your every move eludes me_ , Clarke thinks at him, unable to form words aloud through the gasping for air. _Or do you save this wonderful personality solely for defenseless women?_

“You are far from defenseless.” Bellamy growls at her.

_From the kingdom, perhaps. However, I pose no threat to you. And I mean no harm to your brother._

“Perhaps other people may be fooled by a monster’s words,” he replies, “but I will not. Stay away from Finn.”

He releases her, and she doubles over, gasping. Her wound had opened up again, and she clutches her arm between pressed fingers. Bellamy glances down at her arm, a myriad of expressions crossing his face.

“I didn’t know you were injured,” he says, and Clarke wants to spit in his face.

Instead, she closes her eyes in a struggle against the pain. When she opens them again, the prince is gone.

 

 

 

The next few days are restless. Clarke remains in close proximity to the queen, who is the one individual in this place that she can trust. Finn comes to her a few more times, but each time she manages to get the upper hand. It’s getting weary, though, and Clarke is beginning to think longingly of home.

“What do you think of my sons?” The queen asks her as they’re sharing a walk through the gardens. Clarke glances over at her, trying to guess at what answer she is hoping for.

“They are both fine men.” She responds cautiously, and the queen laughs.

“Please, Clarke. I brought you here because I wished to see you, but also, I admit, because I thought it necessary to see how they would react to you. It is imperative that you give me an honest answer.”

“Finn is overly affectionate.” Clarke replies bluntly. “And Bellamy is...the opposite.”

“You think him to be cruel.”

“I think that he takes his brother’s safety very personally.”

“And has he been cruel to you?”

Clarke takes a moment to think it over.

“Not unduly.” Not more than she deserved, at least in his eyes.

“Well, either way, they’ll be leaving any moment now.” Aurora replies. “And then you won’t have to worry about either of them for a very long time.”

 

Indeed, as Clarke is walking back to her rooms, she sees the men armoring up, a whole battalion of them. It isn’t until she is on the stairs and glances out the window that she thinks why.

There are flying monsters drifting in circles across the sky. Peaceful for now, but as soon as the gates open...she turns to one of the guards accompanying her.

“Do the queen’s sons intend to ride out with the guard?” She asks, and she shouldn’t be feeling this concern for the man who treated her so harshly.

“The king will be in the center, but Prince Bellamy always rides at the back.” The man on her left responds. Clarke’s heart leaps into her throat, and she makes a very rash decision.

“I left something down in the stables.” She says quickly, hitching up her skirts. “I am no longer in need of your services, gentlemen.” She dashes around them and hurries down the steps before they can object.

 

 

 

She finds her horse, Small, tucked away in the back stall. She murmurs words of comfort to him as she saddles up and leads him toward the gates. “I’m so sorry, Small.” She says, and of course he doesn’t understand her but it makes her feel better, at least.

 

She pulls up to the gates just as the last of the guards are exiting, and she slips out with them, breaking off from the battalion as soon as she’s outside. She’s halfway across the field before anyone starts to notice her. She sees Prince Bellamy look over at her in surprise, and he starts to edge his horse towards her as he realizes what she’s doing.

 _It’s too late to stop me,_ Clarke sends a thought at him, as fierce as she can make it. _If you go now, you and your men survive._ She sees him hesitate, but then he turns and urges his horse ahead.

 

The monsters are starting to notice, now. Clarke waits until she’s far away from the soldiers before she pulls Small to a stop, and yanks off her headscarf.

 

It takes a moment, one heart-stopping moment of breathless anticipation, and then the monsters’ screeching is ripping through her eardrums with the force of a siren. She urges Small into a gallop, heading full speed back to the gates. She hears the monsters near, feels the piercing of a claw on her back. She chokes down a scream, urges Small on faster. And now the slashing is white-hot pain, and she can tell Small is hurt too from the way he runs, and she isn’t sure she’s going to make it.

 

But then she’s inside the palace and the gates are closing behind her, and she’s falling off her horse as the world fades to black.

  
  


When she wakes up, everything hurts. Her back especially. There’s a girl in the room, most likely a healer, who offers her a bright smile when she sees her eyes drift open.

“It’s about time you woke up,” she offers. “It was a brave thing you did out there.”

Clarke doesn’t know what to say to that.

 

 _It wasn’t brave,_ she thinks. _It was a declaration. Of whose side I’m going to be on, no matter the cost._

  
  
  


 

It’s months before she sees him again.

 

She’s at the queen’s again, for one of her now-regular visits, and she’s gotten out her fiddle and is playing in a vicious competition against one of Aurora’s musicians. Her fingers are flying over the strings, and there’s a strange lightness in her chest, and she realizes that she’s laughing without particularly knowing why. And then, suddenly, she recognizes an aura that she hadn’t before, and the fiddle and bow screech apart as she whirls around.

 

Bellamy is there, watching from the back corner of the room. A million thoughts run through her head, and before he can say anything, she dashes out the back door.

 

She doesn’t know when she became such a coward.

  


He comes to see her in her rooms, later, with an accompaniment of guards.

“I’m sorry if I startled you earlier.” He begins.

“Not at all.” Clarke says, trying to make up for her earlier rudeness. “I was simply not expecting you. Now, please, tell me why you’ve come to speak with me.”

He looks at her for a long time, then glances down at his boots and clears his throat. “The king has requested your presence at the royal palace.”

Clarke is beyond stunned at this. “For what purpose?”

“He wishes you to assist with the questioning of people we presume to be spies.”

 

And just like that, the offer loses every inch of appeal.

 

“I’m afraid you will have to take back the news to the king that I have other things to occupy myself with than being a professional torturer.” Clarke says frostily. Bellamy glances up at her, surprise evident on his face.

“I didn’t know that manipulating people held such horror for you,” he says, and it’s like a slap in the face to Clarke.

“Now that you do, you may convey that message back to the king.” Her voice comes out harsher than she intended.

“That wasn’t the only reason he’s asking you to come,” Bellamy continues reluctantly. “Finn and my mother both think that you would benefit from the surroundings, and that you would _be....influential_ in assisting the war efforts.”

 

Clarke bites her tongue. “I’ll think it over.” She tells him, and he nods, and exits her rooms.

 

She leaves with the guard in the morning.

  
  


It’s terrifying, being surrounded by so many malicious minds all in one place. She has a small guard assigned to keeping her safe from the others, but the atmosphere is still intimidating. The only bright spot is that she was allowed to bring Small with her, so at least there’s one familiar face.

 

She catches a few glimpses of the prince, but it’s only when she slips out for a midnight walk when she actually runs into him.

“Clarke.” He says with a dip of his head.

“Prince Bellamy.” She replies. They stand in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, content to look up at the stars.

“Do you have nightmares?” Clarke asks, interrupting the quiet. Bellamy’s mouth quirks up at the side.

“I don’t get close enough to sleep for that. It’s worries that keep me awake.” He looks over at her. “Do you?”

“Always.” She replies, not meeting his gaze. “And always of true things.”

 

They stay that way for near to an hour, when Clarke’s guard notices her missing and rushes to collect her. But every night, sometimes with her guard and sometimes without, Clarke wanders out to see the stars, and every night Bellamy is there.

 

By the time they reach the royal palace, things between them have shifted. Clarke can’t tell exactly how, but there’s some sort of connection between them that hadn’t existed before. Trust, maybe. But it feels like something more.

 

 

 

They spend a time at the palace together, and with every day this bond between them grows, until Clarke misses him fiercely even when he’s gone just for a day. She can’t tell how he feels about her, though. He is kinder to her now, surely, but that could simply be because he now sees her as a human, rather than a monster.

 

It’s become apparent to her how she feels about him.

 

 

She knows once and for all that she’s in love with the prince when his sister, Octavia, mentions offhandly how he’ll be leaving to go fight with the border guards the next day, and her heart drops into her stomach. She pastes a polite smile onto her face, but then excuses herself to her rooms.

 

She buries her head in her hands, pushing the scarf down and allowing her hair to tumble out now that she’s alone. Her body racks with sobs, and she wraps her arms tightly around herself. Of course this is why she had taken to avoiding him whenever he’d been about to leave on an expedition.

 

“Clarke?” The voice jolted her up, and she pushed back her hair automatically, scrambling to hide it -

But she never had to hide anything from him.

 

“I needed to see you, before I left.” His voice is soft, gentle. She wipes away the wetness from beneath her eyes and stands up.

“I don’t want to see you.” She says firmly, clenches her fists together.

“Clarke -”

 _“Please.”_ Her voice is raw, and she sees pain flash across Bellamy’s face before she turns away and hides her face in the crook of her elbow.

 

“Don’t go.” It’s the most selfish thing she’s ever asked, of anyone, but she has to.

“I wish I didn’t have to.”

“I don’t love you.” She manages, finally. This is one of the few times she wishes she could read his mind and tell what he’s thinking. “I don’t.

 

“I don’t want to love you.” Clarke says, and these are the truest words she’s ever spoken, in all of her desperate, lonely life. “What’s the use in loving someone who is just going to die?”

 

There are voices calling out for Bellamy, and she hears him curse quietly.

 

“I love you.” Bellamy says to her, calmly. “I hope that brings you some comfort. And all I ask is that you keep yourself well, and that you send me word of how you are.”

 

There’s silence, and then she hears the closing of a door.

 

 

 _Go safely_ , she thinks to him.

 

 

She doesn’t move for an hour.

  
  


 

 

Without him, it’s like she has to adjust to a new way of living. She can no longer go to him when she’s not feeling well, or ask him his opinion on anything, and it’s disorienting. She grows closer to Octavia, both bonded by the loss of Bellamy, and she writes to him every week. She never hears back, and her heart can’t help but grow smaller every day she doesn’t get word from him.

 

She takes up walking throught the sick tents, bringing any small happiness that she can into the lives of the wounded and dying soldiers. It’s the one place she doesn’t worry, and it’s the place where she worries most.

 

She’s there one day, talking to a soldier without a hand, when restless murmurs make their way through the tent. She stands abruptly and whirls around, to see him standing in the doorway.

 

Time seems suspended, drawn out too long before she’s in his arms.

 

He kisses her roughly, and she winds her hands in his hair, breathing in his scent and taste and the feeling of him, _here._

 

“Don’t leave me again,” Clarke whispers against his lips, her heart pounding against her ribcage.

 

“I won’t.” He replies, pulling her closer.

 

_I love you._

 

She’s not sure if he hears it. She isn’t sure that it matters.

 

 


End file.
